


hidden light

by redreys



Series: the adventures of bi jon [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (no one strictly comes out here but its a topic / they talk about doing it), Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Bisexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Coming Out, F/M, Gen, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, being seen by members of your community is important and that's the point of this i think, internalized biphobia (though it's not too heavy), lesbian - bi solidarity!!, they are in a gay bar sort of and nice connections are made
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:47:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28704666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreys/pseuds/redreys
Summary: The girl squeezes her eyes, as if trying to ground herself back into her body, then sighs and looks down to her hands, almost ashamed. “Sorry, I think I need something to do with my hands. Fine if it’s not make-up, I think I’ve decided that’s weird, but I really came here hoping I would find something to—”“You can do mine,” Jon interrupts, abruptly, and the girl raises her head.“What? Really?”Jon can’t see her from his position, but he knows Georgie is smiling.To everyone else, this might seem just… not that deep of situation, not that strong of a connection, not that good of an idea, but Jon is pretty sure no one sits alone in an lgbt pub for an hour, waiting patiently for a chance to do something that doesn’t feel wasted, unless they are looking for anchors.No one sits in silence with their girlfriend for ten minutes straight, dreading a tragedy that won’t happen, unless they are looking for a reason to start moving again.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Original Character(s)
Series: the adventures of bi jon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121003
Comments: 28
Kudos: 98
Collections: bi jon sims celebration





	hidden light

**Author's Note:**

> writing this fic for [jon sims bi month](https://jonsimsbipride.tumblr.com/), prompt solidarity (+ hardship, in a minor sense). hope you enjoy!

If you look hard enough, you’ll find a light hidden in one of the books.

On the back wall, the one behind the stage, there’s a pile of poetry collections and old-school novels. If you pick up the book third from the top, you’ll see it’s not actually a book, but rather a curated home-made case, that opens and closes the way old chests in fantasy films do.

The case has a small gap on its right side, a thin window of air that runs directly above the bottom half of the cover. From that line, a weak light shines through.

‘ _Surely you haven’t seen this one coming’,_ the spine of the case says, in fancy handwriting, and if you spot it before someone tells you it exists, one of the owners will personally draw you a portrait.

Jon had asked what ‘that shiny thing’ was maybe fifteen minutes after he first set foot into the pub—slash bookstore, slash open-mic theatre—and the reaction had been quite theatrical.

A guy from behind the counter immediately shouted _oh my god,_ and Jon’s waitress widened his eyes and looked at Georgie in wordless shock, and two separate customers physically got up to see if Jon had a clear angle on the book, if that’s really what he saw, and then, finally, maybe an hour before the first performance of the night, a woman emerged from the backroom to announce that she had been alerted, and she was going to come back with her tools.

It took her longer than Jon was expecting, but, eventually, she sat down at Jon and Georgie’s table, and wordlessly started to look through her case, looking for a specific pen.

She told Jon he had broken a record, there. No one had ever done it in fifteen minutes. He’s got a good eye—should be writing Sherlock Holmes adaptations or something.

 _Can’t I just_ be _a detective, then?_ he had managed to say, and she smiled, shook her head. _No, doll. Not a fan of real-life detectives. Just take the creative route._

 _Well,_ he had said, smiling back, _can I still ask questions?_

The story of the case and the hidden light isn’t one of fated choices and inevitable miracles, but when Jon asks about it, the painter tells him that it’s a good story nevertheless. The legend goes, the owners will only talk about it with those who have discovered the light on their own. Those people, then, may spread the word to whomever they like.

 _That’s the second gift, you see,_ the painter explains, _the secret isn’t particularly exciting, but it’s nice to tell it anyway. So that’s what you get. The chance to open someone’s door and show them this very silly anecdote._

Georgie, usually chatty and curious and sharp, had been listening in silence since the painter had started speaking. There was something in her eyes that looked very much like admiration. Right then, at the mention of secrecy, she broke her stillness to ask, _do I get to stay here?_

The painter smiled again. _Of course. Unless, well— what’s your name, sweetheart?_

_Jon._

_Unless, Jon, here, wants you to hear this from him._

Jon shook his head. _No, not really. I want her to hear it with me. Don’t care if it’s_ from _me or not._

The painter had liked that answer. First, she told them her name—Regina—, as if they had finally earned the right to address her properly, and then she started talking.

_We didn’t get to choose what to call this place, you know._

_Sam and I… well, Sam, Levi and I—we barely got enough resources to rent it, and the guy who was renting it was odd. He wanted a say over our creative decisions, and specifically insisted on the name ‘hidden light’ for the pub. Told us it was cool, too cool to pass on._

_I was very annoyed at the whole thing, but Sam managed to calm me down. They told me, fuck off with that. It’s not like we are going to easily find someone else willing to let us open an lgbt themed space. Not at this price. So, let’s call it hidden light. We’ll make up a reason for it._

_And so, in one way or another, we did._

_Initially it was just, you know. Invisibility within the community. We are the hidden light, bla bla bla. It stayed like that till we had to give up on renting that place, and it stayed like that till we found this little hellhole. When we were getting ready to open again, Sam got the idea to actually put a hidden light somewhere. We spent a weekend working on that case, with the help of a friend of mine who used to work as a carpenter for his dad, and now, we got our shiny little Easter egg._

_The hidden light is there because we built it. Because we were bored, and because Sam wanted to give me a reason to get me painting again._

Regina put her pen down and showed Jon his portrait. _What do you say? Was that a good idea?_

Today, Jon’s portrait is folded twice and stored in the last pages of his notebook. He has put it in many different places since he got it, but he can never seem to settle on a single one. Jon isn’t the most orderly person, but there are things he wants to keep safe. This is one of them, and he can’t figure out what it should be, and, consequently, where he should put it.

Is it a memory? A good luck charm? A gift? A piece of art, the type you hang on walls?

For now, he unconsciously shoved in the ‘immediately relevant’ folder along with his notebook. At some point, maybe, he’ll know what to do with it.

He only ever thinks about it when he is here, in the _Hidden Light._ The notion that the portrait exists sits heavy in Jon’s throat, and he keeps repeating the words he could potentially say in the back of his head. _If you look hard enough, you’ll find a light hidden in one of the books._

There’s no rule about _having_ to reveal the secret, but Jon feels like he is obliged to try; scan the place to find the perfect stranger, one who may want to know, who may care about knowledge more than they do about the thrill of discovery.

In theory, actually doing that wouldn’t be that hard here. The room is pretty full today, even for a Friday afternoon.

The problem is less than there aren’t real chances to meet someone new, and it’s more that Jon is afraid to approach them. He isn’t usually _this_ shy, but, paradoxically, sitting with his girlfriend in a pub that screems _gay pride_ from all pores leaves him afraid that if he tries to speak up, he’ll look like an impostor.

One thing that makes interactions less scary is that this place never gets _too_ loud. There’s always enough space between the tables so that wheelchair users can comfortably pass through without bumping into anyone, and so the room never ends up packed with people, and the owner’s backroom is available for anyone who ever needs a moment in silence. Regina often uses it, and it’s nice to see her do that openly.

It really does feel like this space is for everyone. It feels like you can be yourself here, both in silence and in chaos.

Jon knows that to be true. It’s still hard to internalize it till he can believe it.

Perhaps, the point is that there’s no way to do this analytically. This isn’t a puzzle, and, even if it was, and Jon doesn’t have all the pieces. He should calm down and sink in the peace of the afternoon, exist without asking himself how and why and when.

 _Okay. I’m alright, I’m okay,_ he thinks, trying to self-soothe his unrest, and then he leans into Georgie’s chest. Breathes out, and lets her hold him tighter.

They are sitting on a couch together, and he is nestled in between Georgie’s legs. She has one of her legs propped up on the cushions, so that Jon can rest his arm on her knees, and Jon feels warm. Protected.

All over the walls that surround them, there are paintings, pictures from pride, quotes from historical figures—poets, writers, activists—and collages made from journals and newspapers and god knows what else, but Jon likes this couch because it’s right beside the copy of the bisexual manifesto. Every time he comes back here, he tries to learn one more line by heart. So far he only knows the highlighted sentences. _Bisexuality is a whole, fluid identity. Do not assume that bisexuality is binary or duogamous in nature: that we have “two” sides or that we must be involved simultaneously with both genders to be fulfilled human beings. In fact, don’t assume that there are only two genders._

It has become a bit of a routine. He gets in, reads one more line of the manifesto (and one only—this has to last) and then sits down either at his table, or on the couch if the table isn’t free.

This is his fourth time here, but, before today, he had never let himself sit here like this; never felt comfortable enough as to whisper _can I just, sit in your lap?_ after coming from the bathroom, somehow suddenly awestruck by Georgie’s presence, by the way she was patiently waiting for him, by the fact that she implicitly expected him to know that she wasn’t going to leave.

“You okay?” Georgie asks, gently interrupting Jon’s thoughts, and Jon nods. Mumbles something close to yes.

He feels her breathe and settle back into silence. It’s hard to tell, but she is probably trying to stay as calm as she can be; let Jon have this, at whatever rate or intensity he’d like.

Usually, Jon enjoys being the centre of attention, and yet even that, sometimes, feels like a bit of a misleading show. He spent a long while talking with Georgie this afternoon, about things both significant and unimportant, but it’s been maybe ten minutes since their last full conversation. Bare silence like this, _especially_ in a public space, _especially_ with Georgie, is unusual for him. It’s special, even when it’s hard.

Again and again, Jon comes back to the moment Regina sat down at their table and asked him _‘do you have any requests for how this portrait is gonna look?’_

He hears himself reply _‘I don’t know yet, actually. Just go with what you see’_ , and he wonders if Georgie felt proud of him for at least trying to answer, and for admitting that there may indeed be something he wants, and it’s okay if he can’t put his finger on it yet.

For a while now, mostly because the couch is very close to the counter, Jon has been trying to tune out both the Regina in his head and the one who is bickering with her wife a few feet beside him. The real Regina, unlike the one who temporarily lives in his head, sighs one last time, and then pushes play on an old record player. _Oh_ , Jon realises after a few notes, they must have finally settled on playing Tracy Chapman instead whatever niche alternative album Regina had in mind. “I keep telling them you can’t play Fast Car at six in the afternoon unless you want people to cry, but they don’t listen,” Regina comments to the room, as she goes to make someone a coffee, and Sam laughs.

Georgie likes the song, and Jon hears her light up behind him, lay down her head so that her forehead now rests on his arm.

“ _Maybe we’ll make something, me, myself, I’ve got nothing to prove,_ ” she sings, quietly, and Jon turns to kiss her cheek.

Instead of going back to staring straight ahead after the kiss, Jon’s attention shifts and lands on the girl who sits on the other end of the couch.

It’s easy for him to fall back into his head, drown in his own thoughts till all roads that lead to the outside world become obsolete, distant, almost illogical, but he makes an effort to forget about the portrait and Regina, and simply look at her. He noticed her when they first sat down (noticed if she was alone, tried and failed to guess if she was okay with that) and now he realises that she seems- torn, anxious. As if waiting to ask for something she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to get.

Jon and Georgie have been here for an hour. That’s a long time to spend uncomfortable and afraid.

Instinctually, Jon thinks that the hesitancy almost looks out of place on the girl. She is wearing a leather jacket with tons of pins on it— _She/her_ , a trans flag, a lesbian flag, something that says ‘community’ in the middle of it, ‘cops are pigs (yes, even your cousin)’, the name of a band Jon doesn’t know and a big one that reads ‘kindness is punk, you fucking idiot’— and she looks like she radiates charisma. Like she belongs on a stage.

It takes Jon a couple of seconds to feel bad for thinking she shouldn’t be hesitant. Charisma and fear aren’t mutually exclusive, and they should not be.

She looks interesting, that’s what he meant, maybe. She looks like someone worth listening to.

“Hey, do you need anything?” Jon asks, out of instinct, surprising both himself and Georgie, who has not noticed the scene at all, and the girl stops bouncing her leg and smiles, perhaps slightly taken aback.

It’s strange, that he would spend all this time trying to work out the courage to think himself worthy of connection, and now it feels so easy, to ask someone if they need help.

The girl brings up her hand to her glasses, pushing them upwards so they don’t fall from her nose. “Oh, sorry, no I’m- I’m okay, but I. Well, I know I must look awkward.”

Jon exchanges a brief look with Georgie, and finds her… entertained, perhaps. Certainly a happy emotion. “Don’t worry. Who doesn’t?”

The girl frowns. “You guys don’t look awkward, you look cute.”

That actually manages to make him laugh. Jon looks up at the girl’s eyes, in curiosity, and sees that they are a deep shade of brown.

“Fair point,” Georgie replies in his place, and her tone is gentle. Welcoming.

“—but,” Jon interrupts, somewhat naturally, which is a miracle in itself, “I assure you I am no stranger to agonizing for thirty minutes over the phrasing of a question. Don’t feel _too_ awkward.”

The sentence is much more relevant than the girl realises, but she smiles anyway. “Thanks. It’s not the phrasing this time, though, it’s that the request is weird.”

Jon shakes his head, as if to say: _so what?_

He wonders what he must look like to her. If the warmth in his ears will match with some other signifier of embarrassment in her memory, and if the way he easily works through the sentences means unique ease to the language of her brain, as well.

“Tell us anyway,” he tries, and the girl stares at them in silence for just a couple of seconds. Maybe she is wondering if this qualifies as third-wheeling, and if it would be a good idea to talk anyway.

Eventually, she nods.

“Okay, mh. This story is longer than it should be, considering how silly my question is, but I guess it’ll make more sense to start at the beginning. My roommate is obsessed with make-up, and she has all these magazines on the topic. Yesterday I couldn’t sleep, and I was alone because she was sleeping at her boyfriend’s place. At some point, can’t even remember when, I started reading her magazines. For an _embarrassingly_ long time. I don’t actually _use_ make-up anyway, not beyond basic stuff that makes me look more awake, but I have this really big palette my cousin gifted me for a birthday in an attempt to affirm my gender—which was so sweet, by the way, even though it wasn’t really for me—so I experimented with that, and though I still don’t like it on my face, I think I enjoy applying it. I just— I guess what I was thinking about was asking people if I can do _their_ make—up, but I left everything at home and I am a stranger anyway, and an incompetent one at that.”

She squeezes her eyes, as if trying to ground herself back into her body, then sighs and looks down to her hands, almost ashamed. “Sorry, I think I need something to do with my hands. Fine if it’s not make-up, I think I’ve decided that’s weird, but I really came here hoping I would find something to—”

“You can do mine,” Jon interrupts, abruptly, and the girl raises her head.

“What? Really?”

Jon can’t see her from his position, but he knows Georgie is smiling.

To everyone else, this might seem just… not that deep of situation, not that strong of a connection, not that good of an idea, but Jon is pretty sure no one sits alone in an lgbt pub for an hour, waiting patiently for a chance to do something that doesn’t feel wasted, unless they are looking for anchors.

No one sits in silence with their girlfriend for ten minutes straight, dreading a tragedy that won’t happen, unless they are looking for a reason to start moving again.

“Really,” he says. “As long as you wash your hands and don’t use lipstick.”

The girl smiles, and the surprise in her expression turns almost immediately into joy. “Sure. And, I mean, I don’t even _have_ lipstick. I don’t have anything at all, not here.”

“There’s a place that sells make-up, maybe three minutes away from here,” Georgie says. “You can go buy some, if you like.”

It’s comforting to see how easily Georgie has picked up on Jon’s feelings. He is _sure_ she would never encourage him to do something so strange unless she is certain he needs someone to push him into trying.

“We could split the price,” Jon adds, and the girl looks like she is trying so hard to limit her enthusiasm and look more… polite.

“That sounds like a really—”

“Rushed plan? Yeah, sure. Would you still like to do it?”

She gives in all at once. Like she had been waiting for something like this all along, and this is the outline of a theatre play she never got to write. “We would have to do it now, I think? Like, _right_ now? It closes earlier today, if I remember the schedule correctly, I don’t know if that’s—”

“That’s no problem,” Jon says, and then turns towards Giorgie, adjusting on the couch so that he is facing her directly. “Would you want to come with?”

Georgie shakes her head. “No, don’t worry.”

“Are you sure you—” the girl tries, but Georgie only shakes her head more strongly.

“I’m fine. I’ll just go ask Regina for a story, she owes me one anyway. You go buy that make-up.”

Georgie wouldn’t mind coming. Jon knows that, and Georgie knows that he knows. What she is doing now, it means: _yeah, it’s like we said all those sleepless nights spent looking at your ceiling. You are not so bad on your own, either. You don’t need_ me _to exist. It’s okay to prove that to yourself, sometimes._

 _Thanks_ , Jon says, just with his lips, just to her, and Georgie shrugs. _Don’t mention it._

When he turns back to the girl, he raises a hand, as if waving her hello. “I’m Jon, by the way. This is Georgie.”

“I’m Mal,” she replies, smiling wide. “And I swear I am an okay person. I am not going to kidnap you as soon as we get out of here.”

Jon looks around for his cane, and then begins untangling from Georgie’s hold. He grabs the cane from where he left it just beside the couch, and then gets up. “I’ll take my chances on that one. You don’t look secretly evil.”

Mal gets up, too. “I promise I’m not, but thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says, now standing right beside her. She is slightly taller than him, but not by much. “You’re welcome.” There’s a bit of genuine, Jon-specific wit in his tone, and he doesn’t really know where it came from, but he’ll take it. It’s nice that it’s there, and it’s even nicer to see Mal smile back. Accept it as the light banter it is.

After that, they are out of the pub before they know it. Jon kisses Georgie on her forehead, takes his bag, and then his hand is pushing open a wooden door. He hears the sound of a small bell ringing above his head, and the autumn air crushes all at once against this skin.

It’s suddenly strange, to stand in the cold with a person he only just met, but he still feels this kind of magical, snow-bright energy pushing him upwards. It comes right from inside of him, like a need, a longing, a wish.

“I think the shop is that way,” he whispers, and Mal nods.

“I think so, too.”

Jon and Mal start walking, awkwardly and side by side, and, initially, they walk in silence. Jon tries to train himself into quiet acceptance; he tries to categorize her details—shaved head, red earrings, leather jacket, boots, black turtleneck, soft features, beautiful hands—as if trying to permanently paint a picture of her in his head, so that if someday he’ll meet her in a crowd, he’ll recognize her. Say hello, and ask her how she is doing.

Though faces are not his strong suit, Jon is not that terrible with them, and he thinks he would remember he knew her, once, but maybe not where from. Maybe, he’d take a bit longer to place her into his memory of today.

Before he can stop himself, Jon asks: “Do you know that if you look hard enough, you’ll find a light hidden in one of the books?”

Mal frowns. “What?”

“In the pub, there’s—a hidden light. In one of the books piled against the back wall.”

She smirks, weirdly pleased. “Really?”

“Yeah, it’s— it’s actually supposed to be a secret. If you guess it before someone tells you, Regina, one of the owners, will draw you a portrait. Those who win that little game are the only ones allowed to spread the story.”

He hears her scoff. “Cheater,” she says.

Jon briefly turns to her, cartoonishly outraged, though only for the show of it. “I am no cheater.”

Mal raises her eyebrows. “Show-off, then.”

She might be the first person that gets an affectionate _fuck you_ out of Jonathan Sims barely eight minutes after first meeting him. It’s kind of cute, really.

“I am just stating facts,” Mal replies, delighted, and Jon shakes his head, rolls his eyes. He thinks of saying something like ‘ _can’t state facts about a strange_ r’ but he is afraid that’ll sound too real, break the ease and ruin the moment.

“Is today the first time you come to the pub?” he asks, instead, as they turn a corner and get into a marginally busier street, and Mal nods.

“Yeah. I have been studying and working hard lately, and it’s— it’s hard to remind myself that I need people, too. A community space like that felt like a good way to start making friends again.”

Jon has no idea what to say, except that he relates. Would ‘ _I know_ ’ be too rude of an answer?

“It does feel like a good way to start,” he tries, aiming for a more eloquent route. “I— recently started openly identifying as bi, so I understand what you were— I understand needing people, I guess. Communities.”

“Congratulations on that,” she says, and he can tell she is smiling even though they are both looking at the ground. “I identified as bi for a long time. I only realised I am lesbian something like a month ago.”

He can’t yet put his finger on why, but Jon is smiling, too. “How was that? The change, I mean.”

“It was, good. I— well, obviously it was hard. It’s not easy, to navigate my identity in a way that doesn’t feel too tainted by what others think. But it’s— it’s funny, I realised I was a lesbian by talking to a drunk bisexual girl at a party.”

Jon laughs. “You did?”

“Yeah. You know, people tell you all the time that ‘it takes one to know one’, and while that’s certainly true, I think the opposite works, as well. I met this girl by accident, and she started talking to me for no reason at all, and there was an instant connection there. She had recently come out to her friends, and she went on and on about her bisexuality and what it meant to her, and it— it clicked for me, at some point, that there was a difference between us. Obviously two people may experience the same sexuality in an entire different way, and maybe it helped that she was trans, as well, that I could relate to her on that level, but noticing the difference between the two of us honestly felt like an epiphany. Like looking into a beautiful painting and realising it could never be a self-portrait. That you love what you see and you respect it immensely, but it’s not you.”

On instinct, Jon slows down to look at her. By some coincidence, they have ended up right in front of a flower-shop, and when Jon sees the roses, he fully stops, as if captivated by the smells, and deviates his gaze from her eyes to the red petals.

“That’s nice,” he says, earnestly. “It’s— good to hear stories like that. I am often trying to— see others through myself, myself through others. I think I get— god, I think I get slightly upset when I can’t manage to translate myself correctly into people’s minds, and I get really afraid _I_ might do that with others, as well.”

Mal moves towards the flowers, and Jon blinks twice, trying to refocus himself. He takes a small step forward, so that they can still hear each other perfectly, and Mal looks up at him when he hears his shoes step on the pavement.

“I think the best you can do is listen, and not assume. You are already doing that right now.”

The first thing that comes out of Jon’s mouth is a heartfelt _‘thank you’_ , and, to that, Mal smiles as if it was exactly what she expected, but it still came as a surprise.

“You said Regina drew you a portrait, right?”

Jon frowns. Not because it’s a bad question or an inaccurate one, but because he thinks it’s a bit strange, if not astounding, that out of all the things he has said, Mal picked up the one Jon has been obsessing over all afternoon.

“That’s the owner of the _Hidden Light,_ right? Did I get the name wrong?”

Jon smiles, shakes his head. “No, no, you didn’t, it’s her— Regina.”

Mal doesn’t ask further questions. Not about the frowning, not about his hesitation.

“Did you like it? The portrait, I mean.”

“Well,” Jon starts saying, trying to get to his backpack with one hand, as the other is busy with the cane, “I can show it to—”

“No, that’s not necessarily. Not now. Did _you_ like it?”

Jon stops moving, and lets the half-empty back gently slide down onto his arm. It’s really light, so he doesn’t bother easing the fall. “Well. She only sketched it, which was nice, actually, but I— I think I liked that the pen she used was bright pink.”

Mal smiles, and Jon takes a moment to notice how at home she looks when she is surrounded by blooming flowers. “Should we go buy some pink make-up, then?”

“Yeah,” he finds himself replying, natural and easy, and, for once, it’s really not that hard at all, to decide something for himself. To claim a gift that he may or may not have earned. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

When they start walking again, chatting about colours and make-up, Jon realises that there’s a reason why doing this is easier than usual: it might have something to do with the fact that he is not alone.

 _On the way back_ , he thinks, then, _we should buy one or two of those roses._

* * *

It’s been a week since Jon wore make-up for the first time in his life, and Georgie and Jon are sitting at the usual table in the _Hidden Light._

They have an appointment with Mal. They haven’t seen each other at all during these seven days, but Jon has thought about her often. He has gone over the things she said to him over and over again, as if hoping to squeeze just a little bit more life out of them.

He can’t _wait_ to see her. He thinks Georgie might be able to tell, and, better still, she might relate. Georgie and Mal talked less than Mal and Jon did, but it’s clear that Georgie really liked her, too.

When Mal finally arrives, she is wearing overalls and the same leather jacket she had on the last time they saw her.

Neither Jon nor Georgie have the time to even say hello. As soon as she gets there, she slaps a few pieces of paper onto the table. “Something _very_ sweet happened,” she says, as if delivering an incontenible good news, something revolutionary and unheard of, that must be prioritized over all other useless norms of social interactions, and Georgie takes the papers in her hands .

“What is it?” she asks, and Mal settles back into the chair and smiles.

“Someone wrote a poem about us.”

Jon frowns. “What?”

“There’s a very nervous guy sitting a few tables behind us, who wanted me to ask you if you are okay with the fact that we are the main characters of one of his poems. I think you should read it, all of it, before you come to any conclusion.”

This is a strange situation, and one Jon isn’t equipped for, but if Mal is happy, then maybe it means this is nice.

A poem? About them—about him? And for what?

“Read it,” Mal insists, perhaps spotting the confusion on his face, and Jon obeys. He moves closer to Georgie with his chair, and peeks over her shoulder so he can see.

The poem reads:

_Four months ago_

_someone told me I broke a record._

_I thought to myself, there’s no way I will be first for long_

_and this is a thing you only get to try once_

_anyway. When the woman drew me_

_like a mermaid_

_— because that is what I asked, because I wanted to be_

_a song, for once, a thing people like,_

_a thing that kills_

_if the pirates treat him badly— I thought to myself_

_there’s no way_

_I’ll get to keep the painting._

_One day, someone else will be first_

_and I will need to return the price._

_A month ago_

_someone told a person I have never seen before_

_that they broke my record_

_and they would get a painting, too._

_That person didn’t know that the record was mine_

_and it didn't matter_

_anyway. When the woman drew them_

_she didn’t mention first prices:_

_the discovery had been enough_

_seeing the light would have sufficed._

_I thought to myself, I wonder how_

_they are going to tell me_

_that I ought to give this up._

_Today_

_the person who broke my record_

_closes their eyes_

_against someone’s shoulder_

_and they look peaceful_

_and they smile._

_I am sitting at their table_

_and I don’t know if I did it by accident_

_if I am playing races with people I don’t know_

_trying and failing_

_to win or lose_

_until the score makes sense._

_When I look down to start writing this poem_

_the scene is silent._

_When I look up again,_

_the person is talking with a girl_

_who sits at the other end of the couch_

_and has been looking at them_

_for a while,_

_on and off,_

_in something like longing_

_something like wish._

_‘Are you afraid you’ll lose your painting?’_

_I think, faintly,_

_and the worry only fades_

_when the person gets up_

_to leave, and the girl follows them._

_The worry disappears when the person’s partner_

_passes by me_

_to get to the bathroom_

_and smiles at me_

_when I smile at her first._

_Maybe I am an enemy_

_the way mermaids are._

_Maybe, I am an enemy at sea_

_because too many people get lost_

_and we are all afraid to drown,_

_but I don’t think_

_I can be an enemy now._

_I am no enemy_

_when the person comes back_

_with three roses_

_I am no enemy_

_when I see the girl paint their face_

_in pink and gold._

_They are no enemy_

_when they laugh together_

_and sing along_

_to a song I have never heard._

_This is a cheesy way_

_to end the poem_

_but I have to leave now_

_and make my mother dinner,_

_so there’s no time_

_to complicate what feels so simple—_

_I am glad_

_we are all sailing_

_the same sea._

Jon looks up from the page, and he thinks there might be tears in his eyes.

“What should I say to the writer?” Mal asks, and Georgie smiles.

Sam is playing Fast Car again (it must be a favourite of theirs) and Jon’s drawing hasn’t left his notebook (he thinks it’s likely it’ll stay there for a while).

For the first time in a few months, the future doesn’t feel as scary as it used to.

“I think you should ask him that if he wants to sit with us,” Georgie says. “We have a free chair.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i wanted to do more research to contextualize the pub in London and its specific lgbt context/history but i didn't have time to research that properly and give it the attention the topic deserves, but maybe some other time. just know that solidarity is massively important and we should cherish it every day.  
> (also, hope that poem at the end wasn't too cheesy. and even if it was, cringe culture is dead, love is alive, who cares)
> 
> as always, comments are appreciated, remus thank you for reading my stuff and caring about my words, and you can find me on tumblr as [mxrspider](https://mxrspider.tumblr.com/)


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